


Everybody Talks

by thatsyouharold (soyouwannaplaywithmagick)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyouwannaplaywithmagick/pseuds/thatsyouharold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John. There’s... something I should say, I’ve meant to say always, and never have. Since it’s unlikely that we’ll meet again, I might as well say it now.” Sherlock actually tells John he loves him before leaving--and immediately gets called back by Mycroft. But when the two parties in question have some trouble discussing their feelings, it takes all of London gossiping to finally get them to talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m leaving  
On a jet plane  
Don’t know when I’ll be back again”  
-“Leaving on a Jet Plane” by Peter, Paul, and Mary

 

“So, what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?”  

“Oh, some undercover work in eastern Europe.” 

“Mm. How long?”

“Six months, my brother estimates. He’s never wrong.”

“And then what?”

“Who knows?” 

Sherlock stared at John who was staring at everything but him, nodding at the dirt and the tarmac. Cautiously, timidly (which was indeed a feat for him), Sherlock began to speak. 

“John. There’s... something I should say, I’ve meant to say always, and never have. Since it’s unlikely that we’ll meet again, I might as well say it now.” 

Sherlock watched John whose attention he now had. There was something buzzing around in the back of his head, something about his name and how it could really work for a female child, a stupid joke to make John laugh. Something that would make John smile so Sherlock could see it one last time. He tried to pick it out of the din, to find the door behind which it sat in the hall of his mind palace where he kept things like that. He reached out for it, that simple joke, that softness. And for a moment, it was all he wanted. Just to see John smile, to laugh again with him one last time. 

Instead, he took his hand off the doorknob to that room, turned, and went down another hallway, one not well cultivated and overgrown with hanging moss and soft green ivy and muck and moonflowers. Sherlock was bad at caring for this particular hall, but oh it was large and some days, it threatened to take over the palace entirely like pleasing, sweet-smelling kudzu. Sherlock did not often venture into this place bravely. Mostly, he would just find himself there accidentally and start about untangling from it. When they’d gotten drunk on the stag night, he’d just wandered in, curled up, and slept there. 

But today, he went in freely, as he stared at John for the last time. He went right in, flung open the doors, raised the shutters, and let in the light. 

“John... I love you.” 

John’s eyebrows came together softly, then his mouth made a sudden, hard line. 

“What?” 

“You heard me.” 

Ever the drama queen. He supposed John had been right. It mattered now, so he’d said it now. Or maybe he could say it because it didn’t matter anymore. 

John tried to open his mouth several times but could never seem to displace the rigid outline of his lips. 

“It’s okay. It’s better. That you don’t.” Sherlock looked at him again, his eyes full, and sighed. With slow, slow movements, he raised his right hand and offered it. 

“To the very best of times, John.” 

John stared back and finally seemed to realize what his options were. To Sherlock’s immense relief, John took his hand and firmly, definitively shook it. 

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock murmured and knew the words would remind John of the last time he’d heard his friend say this, on the Bart’s rooftop two years ago. Only this time, Sherlock was smiling. 

When he released John’s hand, there seemed to be nothing else to say. He turned, walked calmly up the steps leading to his plane, and disappeared inside before John could even process what had happened. Leaning back against the plush seat and feeling the slow taxiing and ascent of the plane, Sherlock sighed. He allowed his red-rimmed eyes to fill, but he did not let the tears fall. He looked out the window, but he did not look for John. He wouldn’t have seen him anyway. 

“Sir?” asked a nonthreatening voice. “It’s your brother.”

Sherlock took the phone from the man’s outstretched hand. “Mycroft?” 

“Hello, little brother. How’s the exile going?”

“I’ve only been gone four minutes.”

“Well, I certainly hope you’ve learnt your lesson. As it turns out, you’re needed.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth with a witty quip poised on his sharp tongue. Truly though, as always, his mind was racing far ahead of him. He was ready to tease Mycroft for the failed attempt to spirit him away, then ready to find out what had happened, what was happening to make the plane turn around as fast as it was already turning, then ready to be back, back to being Sherlock Holmes, back to being himself and every pretend person wrapped around the real one to keep others guessing, back to Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly, and J

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock said none of the things he’d wanted to because remembering what he’d just done pushed it all out immediately. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. That uncultivated, wild place in his mind palace shifted or howled, he wasn’t sure which, and his breath caught in his throat. The plane was descending now. Sherlock had no words at all, except one. It came out in a whisper, not a snap or a growl. Mycroft could barely hear it, but of course, he recognized the emotions in his little brother’s voice. 

“What.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Two lovers entwined pass me by  
And heaven knows I’m miserable now  
I was looking for a job, and then I found a job  
And heaven knows I’m miserable now”  
-“Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by The Smiths

 

“It’s fine, it’s all fine. Why wouldn’t it be fine? These things happen all the time. People say things, they make mistakes.” 

“Ah, yes, but as you so often point out, little brother... You don’t make mistakes.” 

“I make them; _anyone_ could make one. Go off at half-cock and say something they don’t mean. I was under physical and mental duress, no thanks to you, and I merely miscalculated. I...” He paused here, bringing his lips in against his teeth so that he could bite them softly. “I’m sure he’ll understand.” He forced a laugh and looked Mycroft straight in the eyes, not letting his gaze shift over to the left or to the floor like it wanted to. Then he borrowed a quote from Molly. 

“We all do silly things.” 

Mycroft stared at him, his perfectly arched eyebrows displaying the feelings he’d had since first walking into Sherlock’s flat. He had his hands perched on the round handle of his umbrella, and they were immobile to Sherlock’s vision. He was waiting for his brother to continue, but the younger Holmes said nothing. That’s all there was to it. Silly. Silly things. We all do silly things... when we think we’re going off to die and never see the man we love again. 

When Mycroft finally spoke, he spoke as one would to a toddler. 

“Exactly how completely, utterly, unimaginably stupid do you think I am, Sherlock?” Silence filled the room again as Sherlock’s head whipped up so he could look at his brother. Their stare-off went for several seconds as they both prepared for what was coming. The Talk. They had never outright had The Talk. 

Mycroft leaned forward, hands still on his umbrella. “You pine over him for nearly six years, go to great lengths to keep him from harm’s way, continue to put yourself through trials of fire for him, break your own heart for him... He’s married to an ex-assassin and has a child on the way. And you, reasonably believing you’d never see him again, confess your _love_ , and that is the word you used. My lip reading is impeccable, as you well know. And not even five minutes after you get on the plane forever, you’re called back. And neither one of you says anything to the other after the short briefing, though don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to catch his eye. And, then, you call me here and tell me that there’s nothing to worry about. That you’re _fine_. That we all do silly things. Oh, little brother, has this incident caused you to completely lose your mind or did you believe I would feel so bloody sorry for you that I wouldn’t even speak up? Out of respect toward your... feelings?” 

“No,” Sherlock said, tenting his fingers under his chin. “It didn’t have very good odds. Calculating the probability, the chance of you believing me was about one in seventy-two. Hundred.” 

Mycroft curled his upper lip a bit and looked away. “Seems it should be lower.” 

Sherlock swallowed and stared at the floor. Mycroft had taken a seat in John’s chair which made it hard to look at him. Sherlock just wanted him to leave so he could resume his vigil of woe. “You can send me a text when you know more about this Moriarty business. No point in dropping by if there’s no news.” 

Mycroft ignored what was said because, to him, this issue had taken precedence over everything, even the message that may or may not have come from one of the late master criminal’s henchmen. He attempted to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. 

“Your place is a complete mess. You must really be falling apart.”

Sherlock laughed. “It’s always like this, and you’ve never commented before. Are you planning to tell Mummy on me?” 

“Oh, _please_ , Sherlock. The food wrappers, the tobacco... I’m not sure you could even tell me under which stack of books your laptop is buried. And the sheets of crumpled compositions. And the laundry. It’s barely been twenty-four hours, and you’ve managed to turn this flat into a complete hovel. I know you. Your mess has order. This is...” He sighed, touching an ashtray full of crumpled cigarette butts and dry Ramen noodles with the tip of his umbrella. “You’re still pining. Only it’s worse now because there’s nothing you can do to tell yourself it’s all right. He knows.” 

“Thank you very much, brother dear. I promise I’ll drop you a note when they come to film my episode of _Britain’s Biggest Hoarders_.” 

Mycroft turned to look at him again and shook his head. “You are unable admit what you know to be true. That you cannot go back now.” 

Sherlock’s jaw trembled a bit before he spoke, almost undetectable. His voice had risen slightly as well when he began to speak. “Perhaps we can. Perhaps he’ll prefer to just remain the same, pretend he didn’t hear it or that it meant something else entirely. With an alcoholic sister and a military upbringing, John is good at compartmentalizing and excellent at denial. In fact, they’re two of his finest traits––” 

“This is not the Why We Love John Watson Fan Club, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, cutting him off. When he saw the look on Sherlock’s face, though, he wished he hadn’t. He’d said the word again. The first time, Sherlock had been prepared for it, but this time, it had come from another angle. Mycroft looked at the ceiling, presumably for strength, and then settled back in to speak. 

“We both know the truth of the matter. What John will say. What he will do. Little brother, I told you not to get involved.” 

Sherlock laughed, a strange, low sound punctuated by a little choking pop. “Too. Late. Now,” he said. 

And when Mycroft looked at him, he saw the little boy who had wept inconsolably when his only friend had been put to sleep. The lines around Mycroft’s mouth softened ever so slightly, and a small sigh escaped through his nose. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I suppose it is.” 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“We are two strangers  
We might never have met  
We can talk forever  
I understand what you said  
But I’m  
Not  
In  
Love  
What does it take to  
Fall  
In  
Love  
Do people really  
Fall  
In  
Love”  
-“I’m Not in Love” by Talking Heads

 

John Watson merely stared at his phone for the eighth time that day, the tip of his thumb hovering over Sherlock’s name. He practiced it in his head. 

“Hey, uh... Sherlock... Mate. Friend. Sherlock. Hey.” 

“Heyyyyy, Sherlock... I just thought we could talk about what happened. What you said. And what we both pretended you didn’t say. And, yeah...” 

“Hey, Sherlock. So... If you hadn’t already figured it out, which is pretty unlikely because, you know, you’re YOU... I heard what you said on the tarmac, and I don’t... Um. I don’t. Not that I don’t love you like... like a brother. Some annoying little brother or close, close friend, but... That’s not what you meant. Right?” 

“Hey, Sherlock! What the... ABSOLUTE FUCK were you thinking saying that? I mean, you remember I am MARRIED? To a woman I happen to be trying to work things out with as she’s currently carrying MY CHILD. But I’m just going to have to forget it because we’re mates and I’m married and hell, maybe you didn’t even mean it. I mean, you’re always saying strange things. Maybe you didn’t mean it. Did you?” 

“Sherlock... I...” followed by five minutes of silence. 

John locked his phone again and put it in his pocket. He was running the gamut of emotions but at the same time felt numb. Maybe these were all reactions he felt obligated to experience instead of ones that were actually real. But he knew he’d never been good at this kind of stuff. And Sherlock knew too, which was why neither of them had actually made that phone call thus far, John was sure of it. He was starting to pull the phone out of his pocket for the ninth time when Mary called from the kitchen. 

“Soup’s ready, darling. Come have a bowl.” 

Before he could think too much about it, he yelled back, “Coming, Mary!” with a little too much force. 

“All right,” she said in a warning tone. But that was all she said because she remembered what he’d told her that day at Christmas with Sherlock’s parents, a day that had changed his life yet again because of the actions of one Sherlock Holmes. 

But that day, as he had explained he was choosing her in spite of her past, he’d said the words to Mary, “All this does not mean that I’m not still basically pissed off with you. I am very pissed off, and it will come out now and then.” She’d been fairly receptive to this and, obviously, still was since she didn’t seem to mind that he was snapping at her invitation to soup. It wasn’t really her this time that was giving John his sour mood. It was the thing Sherlock had said, or the lack of communication after the thing Sherlock had said. John sighed and touched his phone through his pocket. 

He knew he should talk to him, but pretending that Sherlock had meant something else or that John hadn’t heard him wasn’t feasible and wasn’t fair. _Just deal with it head on_ , John thought, but this didn’t work to push him toward any kind of action. He just stared at the wallpaper which was already starting to peel. _Great. Another bloody thing around here for me to fix_ , he thought, throwing in something about the house not being that old and another curse for good measure. But even he knew that that wasn’t what he’d meant. 

There were times when John felt like he was constantly putting out fires, more of a plugger of holes than anything else. And then he would get kidnapped, and the cycle would begin again. He thumbed at the phone in his pocket some more and thought about what he knew he had to do. Maybe Sherlock would be grateful initially if John pretended he had not heard the confession or hadn’t understood it. But there was not much to misunderstand. Sherlock had probably made sure of it, as he was always telling John what an idiot he was. Making a fist, John’s brain had to bubble a bit while he considered socking the lamp next to him. Finally, he let the feeling go.

No, back to the plan. He had to talk to him, tell him the way it was, but that they could always be the same, that nothing about their friendship would change. He tried not to think about the last time he’d said that to Sherlock.

It had to be handled that way. Because he _did_ love Sherlock. He just wasn’t _in love_ with Sherlock. And that was the whole of it. Sherlock was a man, John wasn’t gay, John was married, and John and Mary would soon have a child to care for. That was reality. He knew Sherlock knew all of this as well. It goes to show that when you truly believe yourself to be losing someone from your life, to be going away forever, that you see less harm in taking a plunge. John tried to tell himself that he didn’t know if this truly was the trajectory of Sherlock’s thought process, but when he did conjure the moment where Sherlock told him, seemingly out of recognition that it would be their last conversation, it made him feel the same thing he’d felt on the tarmac. 

Warm in his stomach and cold in his extremities. Lightheaded. Amazed. And terrified. 

John pushed these thoughts aside, but the feelings didn’t go away quite so quickly. He stood, staring at that little tear in the wallpaper. That little tear that Mary would soon mention casually like she had the lawn which needed cutting the other day. Aside from his occasional outbursts and her lukewarm, passive reactions to them, Mary hadn’t changed her attitude much toward John after everything that had happened. She had cried that day at Christmas, and then there were no discussions about assassinations over the breakfast table and no confessions of a desire for a more exciting life. There was no fear either or uneasiness. Nothing but Mary Watson and her quirks, her no-nonsense attitude, her humor, her grace, her good cooking, and her quiet stillness. Things seemed to be right back as they had been, aside from the occasional bouts of anger John had warned her about. But considering the day he’d shouted at her before finding Sherlock high in some crack den, that was probably nothing new either. 

So. Why did John feel like a stranger in his home, had ever since the day he’d moved back in? He’d stayed in 221B for a few months after the night he’d found out everything, and Sherlock had been in the hospital for most of it. John didn’t even have to ask if it was all right for him to stay there for a while, and he never felt the need to. It was still his home, he remembered thinking vaguely. That thought gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach, which he’d tried to ignore all the months he spent at his old flat. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d spent them there alone.  

But he had moved back eventually, and he and Mary had picked right back up where they’d left off, albeit with her belly somewhat larger. John acted as if he felt fine most of the time, although the discomfort and anger never actually left him. He did feel it was perfectly easy for him to carry on conversations with her most days without wanting to smash the sugar bowl and scream at her for lying, for betraying him, for what she did to his best––

Sometimes, though, he thought about what else she might be keeping from him if her lies were this intricate, this seamless. He wondered if she might be lying about the one thing he believed he could trust, being a doctor and all: that there was life inside her, and they had made it together. When he thought this might also be a lie, it made him want to destroy the whole bedroom, and that would leave a lot more for him to fix than a little bit of peeling wallpaper. Therefore, he kept himself from thinking it as often as possible. 

Absentmindedly, he touched his phone again. No, he couldn’t go about it this way forever. He knew this, not in his rational, Dr.-John-H.-Watson mind, but in his heart. He knew it must be killing Sherlock that they still hadn’t spoken. It was too hard for him to admit to himself in the light of day, but he knew it all the same. He owed Sherlock more. They had to talk about it. Though the thought actually brought John physical pain, he knew they had to. 

And though he did not know what exactly he needed to say, he knew what he needed to get across. The truth. He owed it to Sherlock who’d saved him when he’d been more alone than he ever hoped to be again, who’d come back to him when he’d asked him for a miracle, who’d stood by his side at his wedding... And who, it was harder to admit, had killed a man for his happiness. 

He sighed, knowing what he had to say to this man, his best friend. 

“John! Your soup’s gonna get cold, and then it’ll start getting that skin. Are you coming?”

At the sound of her voice, John’s fist clenched at his side. 

_I’m not in love_ , he thought. _I am not in love._


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey, honey, you could be my drug  
You could be my new prescription  
Too much give me an overdose  
All this trash-talk make me itchy  
Oh my my shit  
Everybody talks  
Everybody talks  
Everybody talks too much”  
-“Everybody Talks” by Neon Trees

 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”   
“Hi. Hi, Greg, it’s John.”   
“John, hey! What’s up? Is Sherlock adjusting well to being back? Should we be worried?”   
“No, it’s, uh... Nothing like that. It’s just I thought maybe we could... talk.”   
“Um, yeah, come by my office after noon. I’ll be there.”   
“Cheers. See you then.” 

 

“Hey, Greg.”   
“John. Is everything all right; you sounded pretty serious over the phone. You sure Sherlock’s not gone back to his old ways?”   
“No, no, he’s fine. Or I guess I don’t really know. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.”  
“Oh. You two havin’ a disagreement?”   
“No.” A deep, sniffing breath from John. “But I was wondering... I just thought you... may know what’s gone on with Sherlock in the past. If you’ve ever see him with anyone before me, well I don’t mean that way, just––Did he ever have a... significant other? And if so, was there a breakup involved?”   
“I’m not really sure. I mean, none of us have ever really seen him with anyone like that, not even you. Right?”   
“Yeah, yeah. It’s just... He doesn’t take well to bad news, and I was just wondering if there was any record, in your mind, of something like that with someone he cared for, you know? Someone he... loved.”  
“No. Not really.” Lestrade leaned forward in his chair and placed the tip of his ballpoint pen on the desk, but his eyes never left John. “John, are you sure everything’s all right?”   
“Yeah, everything’s fine.” He paused. “It’s just that he said something to me, and, uh, we need to talk about it and I want to... do it right.”   
Lestrade’s expression stayed a bit frozen for several seconds. Finally, he let out an over-exaggerated “Yeah.”   
John’s response was a much more clipped version. “Yeah.” He noticed Lestrade was still staring at him with that same intense expression. Finally, John stood.   
“Yeah, you know what? I’m sure it’s fine. It’ll be fine. I’ll just... talk to him. Like ya do. Okay, well, sorry to bother you over nothing.”   
“No, no, it’s fine. We could keep––”  
“Nope. I’m good. Have a good one, then, Greg.”   
“You too, John.” Lestrade’s voice was slightly misty as he watched John leave. He stared moment more in stunned silence, then almost knocked over a stack of important papers diving for his phone. 

 

“Are you sure? You’re _completely_ sure that’s what happened?”   
“It was written all over his face, Molly. I know I’m not Sherlock, but I think I can put a few things together.”   
“And he actually said that. He said that Sherlock’s interested in him, that Sherlock _said_ that he was interested in him.”   
“Well, no, not in so many words, but that’s what happened! You should have seen John, it’s like he’s losing it. He was trying to decide how to, you know, break the bad news.”   
“He’s going to say NO?!”  
“Of course he’s gonna say no! He’s a married man with a kid on the way. I mean, what’s Sherlock thinking saying something like that to his mate?”   
Molly paused over the corpse of Corrine Loretta Matthews, sad case, open and shut domestic violence, and listened to Lestrade on the other end of the phone.   
“Molly?”  
“Sherlock has been in love with John for years, probably since the day they first met.”   
“Well, I didn’t know that!”   
“Of course you did,” Molly said patiently. “We all did. We just didn’t want to see it because we knew this would happen.”   
Lestrade covered his face with his hand. “Ah... Cock it.” 

 

“Oh, dearie, you must be mistaken. John and Sherlock lived in that flat together for over two years. At some point, they must have discussed the nature of things, their... relationship.”   
“They did live together, Mrs. Hudson, but I don’t think the discussion part ever came up. In fact, I believe they both tried very hard to avoid it.”   
Mrs. Hudson sat down at her kitchen table, listening to Molly on the other end of the phone. “So, you’re saying Sherlock told John how he feels, but John’s planning to tell him he reciprocate and crush poor Sherlock’s heart into dust.”   
Molly’s own heart hurt for him, but she nodded. “That’s the whole of it, yes.”   
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Hudson whispered. “What’s John _thinking_?”  
“I’m not sure, Mrs.––”  
“What’s Sherlock going to _do_? And all of it with _Mary_ , and the _baby_ on the way? My God... What are any of them even going to _do_ with themselves?!”  
Molly waited until she was sure there was a pause this time. Then she realized that about all she could do was sigh.   
“I don’t know, Mrs. Hudson.” 

 

“Sherlock... In love with John?”  
“I know. I still can’t wrap my head around it either. Though when you think about it, it does make a lot of sense.”   
Lestrade turned to Anderson whose eyes seemed a bit unfocused. Donovan was unusually quiet.   
“Something wrong, Donovan?”  
“No, Sir. Just... why’re you tellin’ us?”   
“I don’t––I just needed someone to talk to all right?”  
“John...” Anderson said, still in disbelief.   
“Don’t sound so surprised about it, Phil,” said Donovan, rolling her eyes.  
“John...” Anderson said again, this time sounding a bit heartbroken.   
The coffee shop in which they'd met was oddly quiet for that time of day. And it was unfortunate too, as the situation was perfect for a reporter from _The Sun_ who was sitting adjacent to them. Not Kitty Riley of course, as she’d been fired several years before for the fake exposé that contributed to Sherlock’s “death.” This reporter was not Kitty, but he had all of her hunger and ruthlessness when it came to searching for the next big story. And this was big. Scandal big and royal big and #SherlockLives big. He swallowed, licking his chapped lips as he listened to their conversation. The Gossip of the Year (The Decade?). Who cared? He could already see the byline, his name in bold black lettering...

 

Sherlock’s phone rang. John’s mobile. Sherlock scrambled for it, answering on the third ring to give himself time.   
“Sherlock Holmes,” he said in his rich baritone without a trace of anticipation.  
John sat on the edge of his bathtub with the phone to his ear on the other end.   
“ _Sherlock Holmes_.”  
“...”  
“Hello?”   
“...”  
“...John?”   
“...(click).”

 


	5. Chapter 5

“This one goes out to the one I love  
This one goes out to the one I left behind  
A simple prop  
To occupy my time  
This one goes out to the one I love”

-“The One I Love” by R.E.M.  

 

 

SHERLOCK HOLMES &   
BLOGGER JOHN WATSON   
IN SECRET LOVE AFFAIR

 

Confirmed by a close friend of the pair, as  
well as several other officers of Scotland Yard,   
Sherlock Holmes has been carrying a torch   
for his personal biographer and friend, Dr. John  
H. Watson. If you’ve been keeping score at home  
of the accounts of these two men, it isn’t a very   
surprising turn of events, though Dr. Watson is a   
married man. Mr. Holmes could not be reached   
for comment while a close friend had this to say:   
“I still can’t wrap my head around it. Though  
when you think about it, it does make a lot   
of sense.” Readers will remember the duo’s  
exploits from such stories as “The Aluminium  
Crutch” which illustrated Mr. Holmes’ unique

(pg 10) 

  
Jim Moriarty put down his copy of the paper and sighed, his eyes on the lilac-painted wall in front of him. Rather late, or so he thought. When would Sherlock learn anyway? Leaning back in his chair, Jim breathed in slowly and stared out his window. He could smell waffles cooking downstairs. 

Molly called Lestrade who called Anderson who called his wife. Mycroft took no calls and tented his fingers over his copy of _The Sun_. Mrs. Hudson knew better than to bother Sherlock today, or she did when she received a call from Molly who desperately wanted to discuss the situation. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were away in Greece, but the news was not far from them. Noticing that his students were giggling over another copy of the paper, Mike Stamford snapped at them all and gave them a pop quiz. Donovan felt absolutely low, wondering, if she actually got Sherlock’s number from Lestrade, what she would even say to him or how she could begin to apologize.  

  

Sherlock spent the entire morning locked up in his flat. He knew the worst had come though he wasn’t prepared to actually deal with it. He convinced himself that he would just spend a little time at 221B, not taking any new cases or giving anyone the chance to bother him. Unfortunately, every time he told himself to just get up and occupy his time by measuring the spray range of the pinacate stink beetle, he merely remained sitting on the floor of his bedroom for another hour or so, not measuring much of anything. 

It wasn’t that he cared what other people thought, but he knew John well enough to know that _he_ did. And this was it. The final nail in the coffin, so to speak. Lestrade had called Sherlock at least eight times already and it wasn’t even his lunch hour yet, so even an idiot could tell that the article was already in wide circulation and that Lestrade had contributed to its contents. Sherlock was positive that Lestrade had not meant to, but none of that really mattered now. 

His phone had been blowing up with phone calls and texts all morning. He’d only bothered to look at one.  

_Chin up Mr Holmes. Learn to make the press work for you. And if all else fails, invite him over for dinner and tie him to the bed._  

He still didn’t know where she was now, but he knew better than to bother replying to the text. The number wouldn’t even be good an hour or so after she sent it. 

So it was pretty clear what his plans were for the rest of the day: ignore the buzzing of his phone which he refused to turn off and try to figure out what an everyday man would do in this situation, as his usual expertise was drawing him a very large blank. 

  

John had been disinterested in breakfast that morning and, instead of sitting down to eat with Mary before he left, he jumped on his bike and rode toward his practice. In addition, instead of stopping once there, he kept riding. Huffing like a steam engine, John kept going and going and going. He continued to ride his bike until he was more than a little bit lost and completely worn out. He came to a bridge and soon realized he didn’t have the energy to make it up. Peeling himself off the bike, he sat on the edge of the bridge, panting. 

It was all completely moronic really. He knew exactly what he had to do. Go back to the clinic, go to work, proceed as usual. But he knew better than to tell himself that he was running away from the clinic or his Monday or even Mary for that matter. 

_“...John?”_

The way Sherlock had said his name over the phone had all but broken him. He felt like the biggest arsehole who ever lived, and when he looked at how the world saw his best friend, and how he had viewed him on occasion, that was a rather strong statement. But sitting on that bridge, he felt like more of a shit than ever because he remembered how careful and focused Sherlock had been the day of John’s wedding. And then he remembered the way his friend had reacted when everyone teared up at the beautiful words he eventually uttered during the Best Man Speech That Wouldn’t End. 

_“John? Did I do it wrong?”_

_And what did I do? I hung up on him._ It somehow seemed unforgivable. But John knew it was time. They absolutely had to talk about it. Not in any way, shape, or form because John actually wanted to, but because he owed that to the man who had been his best friend for so many years, his savior, and his reason to run on when he’d had no other. They had made many declarations to each other over the years, and John hoped what happened today would not change any of that. _Sherlock, you’re my best friend and I love you. But not that way._  

He slowly stood. His legs felt like they were going to give out, but he eventually got himself headed to the nearest tube station. He changed clothes in the bathroom there. It didn’t help much, but after he’d splashed himself with sink water, he felt a little better. Picking up his folded bike, he headed toward the platform. The only strange thing was there were a couple of kids standing under the clock who seemed to be laughing at him from behind their copy of _The Sun_. He chalked it up to paranoia and got in when the train arrived at the station. 

 

By noon, Sherlock had changed it up a little. He was now lying on the floor. The day seemed like it was never going to end, but he knew that was because he wasn’t occupying his mind with anything except his emotional agony. It had been a long time since he’d let a thing like that happen. It was also true though that it had been a very long time since he’d said “I love you” to someone. 

The severe silence of the flat made the creaking of the door all the more jarring. Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and made a tiny “Oof” sound. He stared at his bedroom door and crawled to it, pulling himself up by the knob. Mrs. Hudson was away on her shopping trip. Would Lestrade come in without knocking, using his authority to break in downstairs? Sherlock’s heart radiated a chilled beat that sent shockwaves through his whole body. Could it really be the person he so wished it would be?

Finally on his feet, Sherlock ventured into the living room. Mary was standing there in front of him. His throat felt like it was full of sand as he stared at her. 

“Mary.” 

“Sherlock.” 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Suppose  
Who knows  
She’s not above suspicion  
Is she  
Maybe  
On some kind of secret mission  
Better listen  
Somewhere  
Somehow  
There’s still some pieces missing  
I sense  
I feel  
Trust my intuition  
Don’t rush into your decision  
Now, here she comes  
Here she comes”  
-“Here She Comes” by Bonnie Tyler

Sherlock tried to stand his ground, but it wasn’t easy with his best friend’s pregnant wife who was also a former assassin staring him down. He felt about three feet tall in that moment. The corners of his lips turned down. 

“Tea?” he managed.

“No, I think you know why I’m here.” Mary’s voice was cool, and her manner wasn’t the least bit timid. Being pregnant did change the way she moved, but not the hardness she wore on her unlined face. Sherlock tried not to swallow visibly. He wasn’t frightened of Mary, and he knew he had no reason to be. But this moment was one he could have done without. 

“Yes, I do.” 

Mary did not remove her coat and Sherlock did not offer to take it. It stayed on her rounded frame, a gray wrap that made Sherlock feel itchy just looking at it. She nodded, her eyebrows raising and mouth puckering into a “well-at-least-there’s-that” sort of look. 

“So your friends are giving interviews to _The Sun_ now. About you. And John.” 

The way she said John’s name gave Sherlock a slight twitch now at the edge of his jaw. When they’d been preparing for the wedding, he’d thought then that it was sweet. _She says his name comfortably_ , he’d thought to himself, _like he’s hers and she knows it_. Recently though, after watching the video from the previous year’s Bonfire Night in Magnussen’s home, he’d realized that he said John’s name the exact same way, albeit dipped in fear. Now, whenever she did it, he twitched. 

Sherlock was pleased to hear the words on his tongue come out strong and direct. “I think you and I are both smart enough not to believe that drivel. If eavesdropping counts as interviewing, _The Sun_ might as well bug the flat.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone’d bugged your flat, am I right?” 

They were quiet for a moment. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Mary cut him off with a wave of her left hand, the one with the wedding ring on it. 

“I don’t want to hear anything about it, Sherlock, honestly. I don’t want any explanations or deductions or any other bullshit. Because you and I have both known this for a very long time. You’re in love with John.” 

Twitch. 

“I knew it the minute we met,” she continued. “But I wasn’t sure you did. I don’t care where or when you discovered it, and I don’t care what you plan to do about it.” 

“Obviously you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” snapped Sherlock, turning on his heel slightly to face her head on. 

Mary gave another concessionary face, her head tilting softly to the side. “Well. You’ve got me there.” Her eyes turned back to him. “But it seems that you’ve told the wrong person, and now all of London knows about the torch you’ve been carrying for my husband.” 

Sherlock stood silent, unwilling to mention that the “wrong person” he told was John himself. 

“Strange, too, as you always seem to hate sharing yourself with others. Was it worth it?” That one stung even more, if possible. 

“If you would please come to the point,” Sherlock said as evenly as possible. The only reason he was able to do it was because––

“You already know what I’m going to say.” 

Sherlock took a deep, long breath and leaned back into his full height, looking at Mary with weary eyes. “‘Stay the hell away from my husband.’” 

“Uck, that so domestic and _Desperate Housewives_. No. Do you think I’m going to come between John and his best friend?” 

“I think that’s exactly what you’re doing, and what you’ve always done. ” 

“We both know how John’s going to react to this, Sherlock.” Mary’s eyes were hard, blue crosshairs, focused precisely on Sherlock. “We know John. And how he’ll take it and we know exactly what he’ll say to you. He’s never wanted that.” Her voice joined her gaze in its meticulous ice. “He’s never wanted _you_ like _that_.” 

Something inside Sherlock twisted, rising the bile to his throat. This time when he said it, there was power behind the words. “If you’re so sure, then why are you here?” 

“Because I already told you once. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to keep from losing John.” She became very quiet. “And if you happen to threaten my happiness with him, in whatever way, I will not hesitate... To finish what I started that day in Magnussen’s office.” 

Sherlock’s eyelids lowered a bit. “I understand.” 

“Good.” She looked him, and the flat, over before saying, “Best of luck with all of this.” 

“Mm.” 

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” 

“Mary.” 

She turned away before he’d finished his slight nod. His heart was pounding and all of his muscles were taut, but he wasn’t sweating, shaking, or experiencing goosebumps or dyspepsia. This was not fear. When she passed under the threshold, he bared his teeth slightly. 

 

Mary walked down the stairs rather brusquely for a woman who was eight months pregnant and disappeared out the front door. And John stood near the door of 221C, his whole body cold and shaking. He breathed hard for a full minute and thought about how ridiculous it was that two of the most alert and mindful people he knew had managed to have it out above him without noticing his presence. John gripped the door handle to the unrentable flat and listened to the words of the two people he’d once said he loved and cared about most in the world play back in his head.  

_“So your friends are giving interviews to_ The Sun _now. About you. And John.”_

_“‘Stay the hell away from my husband.’”_

_“He’s never wanted_ you _like_ that _.”_

_“If you’re so sure, then why are you here.”_

_“There is nothing in this world that I would not do to keep from losing John. And if you happen to threaten that, in whatever way, I will not hesitate... To finish what I started that day in Magnussen’s office.”_

John couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t even think straight as the two most important people in his life repeated their snarling quips over and over in his head. He wasn’t good with this, he’d never been good with this, he could not deal with this. 

That was when he opened his eyes and took a deep, long breath himself. That was true. He’d never been good at this stuff, but who the hell would deal with _this_ exact situation with grace and dignity? As always, the best thing to do was form his plan of action. And at least the first part would easy. John needed a copy of the _The Sun_. 


	7. Chapter 7

“Some days I don’t know  
If I am wrong or right  
Your mind is playing tricks on you my dear  
'Cause though the truth may vary this  
Ship will carry our  
Bodies safe to shore”  
-“Little Talks” by Of Monsters and Men

 

John held his copy of _The Sun_ in shaking fists. He knew there was no way that Greg would have given an interview like that, but he had to have told someone who went to the tabloid. Who could it have been? Donovan. She was always calling Sherlock a freak, back before everything Reichenbach had happened. Did she think this would be funny? A little joke she could laugh over with a glass of wine? He could just––  


Taking easily the thousandth deep breath he had breathed since finishing the article, John returned himself to a place of peace. Or, well, close enough. It was better than the white hot fury he kept narrowly avoiding. As he sat on the bench across the street from the newsstand where he’d bought _The Sun_ , he asked himself for the first time where the anger truly originated. 

None of it, strangely, lay with Sherlock. John was the first to admit when Sherlock was being a total prick, but if anyone could be blamed for causing this, it was John. Somehow now, even when he thought about Sherlock imitating Mary with the snarl of “‘Stay the hell away from my husband,’” John still didn’t blame him. 

He wanted to blame Greg, but he couldn’t do that either. He knew the poor man thought of himself as somewhat of a father-figure to Sherlock, and he knew that he was likely beside himself over all of this. And John didn’t know who had spoken to the tabloid so he couldn’t really be mad at whomeverthehell that was. He took another deep breath. 

He couldn’t be mad at Mary. He told himself that several times, over and over, and it still didn’t help. John had been mad at Mary for a long time, and though she should be counted as one of the humiliated parties in this whole farce, he was still angry with her. Now that he was away from 221B, he had trouble remembering exactly why ( _“I will not hesitate... To finish what I started in Magnussen’s office.”_ ), but the anger resonated more strongly than it ever had. 

When he thought about it, really really thought in that calm, seaside space he liked to go to when he got annoyed with patients or when Sherlock was prattling on about whatever, he realized the bulk of his fury was focused squarely on the author of the article. “Sherlock Holmes and Blogger John Watson in Secret Love Affair”?! Did they _really_ think people still needed reminding as to who John was? And “Secret Love Affair,” Jee-sus! Could they get more sensationalized? 

John had found that it got worse from the headline. Apparently, they were “sneaking off for romantic trysts at 221B” and “meeting for furtive sexcapades in dark alleys,” or so the highly scrupulous people at _The Sun_ speculated. On top of that, the prat who’d written the damn thing described them as “exchanging longing, doe-eyed stares in every picture ever taken of them together” and suggested that he wouldn’t be surprised if “there was a grand declaration of love at the end of the week, followed by Dr. Watson’s moving back into 221B to the cheers of all those who’d refused to deny their obvious and deep attraction for one another.” It made John want to snap some necks. 

Did anyone even pay attention to the way he and Sherlock were, to  _whom_ he and Sherlock even were? The piece descended into such mushy-headed drivel that John couldn’t even believe it was still about them. He and Sherlock were private about their friendship, that was a fact, but the article made it seem as if they were just trying to amplify the stakes of their undying love for a captive audience. It came off like they were playing into the discussions of others which probably concerned their preferred sides of the bed and sexual positions and... John’s thoughts derailed for a moment, but then eventually, he got the train back on its tracks and pulled it into the station. 

John’s relationship with Sherlock wasn’t something the two of them needed to speculate on or explain or share with anyone: they just _were_. The best thing about being with Sherlock, always, is that John didn’t feel like he had to justify himself, didn’t have to put on airs. He honestly believed Sherlock felt the same, though he knew his friend liked to impress him. It was okay because he liked being impressed by Sherlock. Suddenly, the time they broke into Baskerville came to mind, and he thought of Sherlock asking him if he enjoyed pulling rank. He heard the awe in Sherlock’s voice when he’d asked him that, and the smile caught his lips before he even realized it. 

_Sherlock. And me,_ John thought. _We’re a team. We..._ were _a team._

He knew easily from the article how people thought it had all happened: “a grand declaration of love” with high stakes and explosions and mystery and sex. But Sherlock and John had always had two kinds of declarations in their lives: the unspoken and the spoken. The unspoken were like Sherlock pulling John out of the fire, and Sherlock shooting Magnussen, and John shooting the cabbie... They had been grand, but nothing had been said. Nothing had needed to be, or so John had always thought. 

Then he remembered the times where they’d actually spoken the words: “I owe you so much,” “you’re my best friend,” “I love you.” He thought about the sheer understatement of those moments in comparison with the bombs and the kidnappings and the murders. He thought about how Sherlock had looked when he’d said it so quietly, thinking he was about to step onto a plane and out of John’s life. 

“John... I love you.”

He realized those moments had had their own weight, weight that rivaled the dangerous moments, but that no one would understand this fact ever except for the two of them. They just were. No one understood. All that talking had done all of the others nothing. 

Because John was finally beginning to understand it himself. 

 

 

If he went there, John would be uncomfortable. John would be awkward and uncomfortable and have a good chance (roughly 42% percent chance) of getting angry in his flustered state and telling Sherlock to bugger off. If he went there, Mary would also be there. He was not afraid of Mary, but he was afraid that he might not hold his tongue so well, should they happen to see one another again. Also there was a good chance (roughly 88% chance) that Mary might shoot him again. For this, he intended to check her for guns and to wear a bulletproof vest and to hope that she wasn’t home. The most likely outcome (roughly 93% chance) was that John would be home, tell him to bugger off, and Mary would come later to 221B and try to kill him. He’d had a dummy made just for this possibility (it was very likely that there would be at least another twelve attempts on his life before he retired). 

_SHOW OFF._

Sherlock jerked his head as if he were trying to get water out of his ear. 

_YOU SHOW OFF EVEN TO YOURSELF. ENOUGH WITH THE PERCENTAGES._

Of all the new neuroses Sherlock had picked up in the past five years, this one which used John’s voice was his least favorite. 

_WHINEY._

Sherlock turned his head to the side again, that quick shake not doing much. 

“Shut up, John.” 

_CRAZY. FREAK._

His shoulders jerked upward, and he groaned. “Shut up!” 

The voice silenced. Sherlock took a long breath and stared out the window. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to do it. The most logical thing to do had been with him since the very beginning. It was what all the websites said to do, all the magazine articles. After “Step One: Give Him Time,” the next step of the “How to Salvage Your Friendship After Dropping the ‘I Love You’ Bomb” articles was always: 

“Step Two: Talk to Him” 

Be respectful, listen to how he feels, and remind him that it’s still important to you that the two of you can be friends. Be understanding, but know that you deserve a straight answer after telling someone your feelings. 

Sherlock picked up his phone, ignored the eighty-four phone calls, text messages, and congratulatory e-cards and pressed John’s number. One ring. 

“Sherlock?” 

“John.” 

A silence. Sherlock heard John sigh. On the other end of the line, John’s voice was surprisingly soft when he spoke again. 

“We need to talk.” 

“We... We do.” 

“I’ll be right over.” 

Sherlock nodded, even though John couldn’t see him. “Yes. Yes, all right.” 


	8. Chapter 8

“Do you have an opinion  
A mind of your own  
I thought you were special  
I thought you should know  
But I’ve run out of patience  
I’ve run out of comments  
I’m tired of the violence  
I couldn’t care less”  
-“Special” by Garbage

 

Sherlock could really only dance from room to room anxiously as he waited for John. He felt too hot and too cold at the same time and absolutely unprepared as to what he should say. Every so often the little condescending-John voice would try to creep back in, and Sherlock would have to squelch it with the reminder that he, John, was coming. Sherlock was not delusional. He was coming. He _was_ coming. 

And they would finally talk about this. 

He kept pacing until he finally heard that familiar heavy step on the bottom stair, the sound of John’s keys in his hand, and the throat clearing that could only be John working up his nerve to come up the rest of the way. Sherlock’s heart pounded and his mind only thought of John. 

_Just let me have him in the barest way possible_ , he found himself thinking, though whom he was addressing he couldn’t know. _As long as I have something of him, I will be all right._

He pretended to be standing next to the window just thinking. He realized last minute that he should have his violin tucked under his chin, but it was too late. He focused all his energy on making his skin not buzz the way it wanted to when he heard John enter. 

“Hey.”

Sherlock turned and tried to make a relaxed, “oh-hey-how-is-it-going-buddy” kind of face, but just wound up looking like he’d been sucking on an old lemon and hadn’t realized it until just now. 

“Hello.” 

They shuffled awkwardly for a moment. All of the courage John had when Sherlock had called him seemed to seep away in the face of where he was. John made his shoulders perfectly square and glanced around the room, sniffing a bit. Then he rolled his eyes at his own arseholery and looked at his friend.

“Sher--”

“I know what you’re going to say. You know about the tabloid. And you believe you know that I must have told someone else, but the only one who knew aside from you and me was Mycroft. Lestrade has filled my voicemail with calls which makes it fairly obvious that he knows and somehow inadvertently caused what happened. So unless Mycroft is having a secret affair with Lestrade, I’m not entirely sure how it got to--”

“Sherlock!”

It was one of the times where John’s serious voice shut him up entirely. 

“Listen, I, uh... I told Greg. But I’m sure he didn’t share the information on purpose, at least not to a tabloid.” He sighed, gathering the courage he desperately wanted back. “I just think... that none of it matters, really. Well, it does, but we shouldn’t be worrying about it until we talk about what it all means for, you know, us.” 

Sherlock tried to keep his heart from beating out of his chest when John said the word us. From John’s body language and tone, Sherlock could gather it wasn’t really the us he was still hoping against all odds for. 

“Right. Of course.” Sherlock raised his eyes back to John, squared his shoulders, and prepared himself. Strangely, no words came out of John’s mouth after that. 

“Should...” Sherlock started and then trailed off. 

“What?” John asked. 

“I––”

“Sorry.”

“No.” 

“You.” 

“It’s––” 

“Ah...” John let out a wheezy laugh. They were a mess. He looked up at Sherlock and quietly said the only words he know how to say, the only words that were one hundred percent true. 

“Sherlock. You’re my best friend.” 

“John?” 

Both men looked as if the bubble around them had suddenly dissipated. Well, shattered was more like it, though bubbles don’t exactly shatter. 

“John.” 

Pop. 

Mary was in the doorway, her eyes fixed on John. She nodded at the both of them and then raised an eyebrow. 

“I had a feeling you would circle back eventually,” she said. 

John ran his tongue over his top layer of teeth and gave it a little nod himself. 

Sherlock listened to the way Mary said eventually and studied John’s face. His felt ears began to turn red when he realized that he’d literally had no idea that, while he and Mary had spoken, John had been present as well. “You were here.” 

“Yes,” John said, just as quietly as when he said the words he knew to say to Sherlock. 

“Before.” Sherlock looked at Mary and then back at John. “When she was here.” 

“Yes. He was hiding downstairs.” Mary looked John over. “I noticed him on my way out and waited at the cafe for him to come back.” She turned back to Sherlock, adding, “But perhaps we could spend time on parts of this conversation which everyone else doesn’t already know.” 

Sherlock gritted his teeth slightly and let it go. She was goading him. 

_SHE’S LAUGHING AT YOU_ , said the fake John. Sherlock’s skin crawled. 

“John, listen, I’m huge and uncomfortable and I haven’t started dinner yet, so if we could get along with this, I would really appreciate it.” 

In other times, John would get angry. He would ask Mary since when in all hell did she start talking to him like that? And he would probably ask it in a yelling kind of tone. He might kick a chair too.  But in this moment, he was too embarrassed, for reasons which were even more embarrassing than the embarrassment. He stayed silent and just stared at her. 

“Fine. That’s what you want.” Mary’s mouth turned down at the corners and she nodded. “All right. Have it out, Sherlock. Tell him how you feel.” 

“What do you––”

Mary stopped him, obviously in no mood. “Please. Get on with it.”

Sherlock was starting to feel his insides shifting and squishing against him. He didn’t know what the medical term for it was, but he’d been grinding his teeth ever since Mary’d showed up, and he was experiencing issues with tachycardia and an increase in body temperature. Plus he knew his ears were still pink, his awareness of this fact making them grow ever pinker. He finally managed to get his words out in an even tone. 

“I do not wish to do this.” 

“Well, you said something to my husband which you believed had a chance, however small, of threatening our marriage, so I think we’re doing this.” 

“Mary.” John found his voice but it was still choked by his discomfort. 

“I did no such thing.” Sherlock’s voice was rising now, and he struggled to keep it calm. “I am not attempting to threaten anything.” 

“I don’t believe that after what happened earlier when we spoke. You were very defensive.” She threw a glance at John to see how he reacted, and if Sherlock hadn’t been so distracted, he would have seen the fear in her eyes. Mary knew that John had heard what she’d said earlier that day about making sure Sherlock would see his death if he ruined her marriage. Part of her tried to do damage control, convince herself that John believed she didn’t really mean it. But the rest knew that this could be the last time she would see John. She wasn’t going down without a fight. That meant breaking Sherlock’s facade. Not usually so hard as all this. 

“We should not be speaking of this matter at this time.” Sherlock attempted to turn away but to where he didn’t know. All of his knowledge gave him nothing in this moment. He was grasping at cliches, at denials, things that let a man like Sherlock Holmes instantly know someone was guilty. He was inside out. 

“I would like to speak about the fact that you told my husband you loved him.” 

No one said anything for a moment. John’s face looked utterly sick when Sherlock snuck a glance at him, and Sherlock could feel his own heart breaking inside him. 

“I thought I would never see him again.” 

“Honesty.” Mary gave a nod which ended with the slight tilt of her head. “Well, you miscalculated again. Didn’t you, Sherlock?” 

“Enough,” Sherlock said, a slight growl in his voice. John felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Behind the ringing in his ears, Sherlock could hear the wavy, condescending voice of John calling him names, calling him worthless, calling him an idiot. 

“Is it?” asked Mary. “Because it would have been enough if you’d stayed away.” 

“Mary,” John said, more power there now. It went ignored however. 

“If _I’d_ stayed away.” 

“Yes, I think John would absolutely been better off if you had stayed dead to him. Caused him enough trouble as it was just to have you back in his life. And now this.” 

“Have I caused him any more trouble than you have with your secrets and plots?” Sherlock was saying things he had kept locked up in his mind palace for a long time. The room with the vines was howling. It wasn’t even like he was saying the words; that part of his mind palace, unkempt and untended, was his voice now. 

“It wouldn’t have become an issue if you had not returned. What have you ever done for John? He acts as if you hung the moon, but what did you really do for _him_ , for _John_?” 

“We were the world to one another before I had to stop Moriarty! Before you––”

“ _You_ died! And John moved on.” 

“That isn’t so; when I died, he was _inconsolable_!” 

Mary laughed. “Guess who consoled him!” 

It didn’t go on like this any longer because John had finally had enough. The embarrassment which had crippled him continued unabated, but he could not listen to another word. He grabbed the client’s chair which seemed always close to him and flung it across the room, far from Mary and Sherlock but still making Sherlock jump. Mary remained oddly calm. 

“ENOUGH.” 

John was breathing hard, the only sound in the room. He had been silent long enough and he was finished with it. Crushing every other emotion he felt, he let his anger take control. 

“I don’t want to hear another word from either one of you, do you understand me? This is the most ridiculous thing... in which I have ever been involved. So not another goddamn word.” 

He looked at Mary and finally saw the way she looked back at him now and how different it was from when she was pretending to be Mary Watson. Now here she really was: cold, calculating, the sniper, the assassin. A.G.R.A. It was the first time he’d really looked at her and seen her. 

His eyes darted to Sherlock then and he saw his god-like friend, whom for years John had followed in his constant way even when the rain fell on him as Sherlock stayed dry, and saw him breaking down. He saw the shaking of his hands and mouth, the fullness of his emotions (terror and anger and envy and confusion), and the soft slumping of his shoulders. He remembered seeing Sherlock standing like that once. He’d caught a glimpse of him at the reception of his wedding before Mary had pulled him back into her embrace. For a moment, he’d seemed lost on a dance floor full of people. _He’ll be all right_ , John had thought. This time, he didn’t cover what he saw with comforting thoughts.

John Watson took in a deep breath and said the words pretty much everyone had expected he would say at one point or another, the words he’d never said on principle some days but was really, actually saying now. 

“It’s too much.” 

Sherlock heard them and felt a thin layer of ice crawl across him, mind palace and all. He was ready for that frost. He knew winter and had been there for a very long time. 

John turned to his wife and spoke. “Mary. Go home.” 

Mary and John were very quiet for several seconds. Sherlock counted eighteen. There, something passed between them that was not readable or understandable by anyone save them, not even Sherlock. Married-couple-speak that was silent and deafening and completely understood by both parties. Then she nodded and stepped toward the door. Her body still held a defiance that Sherlock could not help but admire, even if he did hate her now despite all he had done to try and keep himself from exactly that emotion.  

As Mary turned to go, John murmured, “It isn’t, is it. Mine. The baby.” He wanted to say more ( _It was a trick to keep me with you all of this was a trick you wanted to hold onto me despite every single_ ), but it was understood.

Mary cleared her throat but did not turn. “No.” Then she was gone. 

Sherlock tried to force thoughts through his frozen mind. There was so much he could say, not much he should say, and one question he desperately needed to ask. But when he opened his mouth, John turned to Sherlock and stopped him before he could speak. 

“I need to sit in my chair. For ten minutes. I need a cup of tea. And I need silence.” 

Sherlock shuddered a bit, though he wasn’t sure why. John wasn’t asking but he paused at the end of his list. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock and went to put the water on. 


	9. Chapter 9

“What if we ruin it all  
And we love like fools  
And all we have  
We lose?  
And I don’t want you to go  
But I want you so  
So tell me what  
Tell me what we choose”  
-“Fools” by Lauren Aquilina

 

Sherlock was quieter than he’d ever been in his life as he ticked down the ten minutes John had said he’d needed. When the water boiled, Sherlock made the tea and carried the tray over to the small living room table. He watched John take his cup and blow thoughtfully on the steaming liquid. John’s lips were clamped nearly shut as he did so, and Sherlock wondered how he managed to even get any air through them. He sipped his own tea and tried not to be obvious that he was waiting. 

Ten minutes passed, and Sherlock immediately opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. 

“Ten minutes?” asked John. 

“Yes.” 

John gave a little nod, having known that Sherlock would be the one to tell him when the allotted time was up. He was better than any watch John had ever owned. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Sherlock. 

“Do you need... more time?” Sherlock asked. He thought perhaps he might need more time himself. 

“No.” John’s cool, blue-gray eyes were looking right into Sherlock now. He was ready to say it, whatever it was he wanted to say. Suddenly, Sherlock had an idea that this was about to be a very one-sided conversation. 

“What you––what you said on the tarmac that day.” John swallowed, his lips pursing. It still wasn’t easy. He still didn’t seem able to make himself say it. 

Sherlock wished he could think of something to say, something to ease it. But his mind palace was never one to hold the information for soothing awkward conversations and the part of it that did hold feelings like these was so uncultivated, marshy, and dense, he knew there’d be nothing there that would help. That place made his eyes water. 

Shifting in his chair, John continued to think on the words he was afraid he still couldn’t say. John had prepared the speech he’d given to Mary that Christmas afternoon for at least three weeks. He had kept going over and over the words in his head, making absolutely sure that the ones he was choosing perfectly conveyed his feelings. And then he’d realized later that they weren’t his feelings at all.

He thought about the moment with the bomb under Parliament and how he really had believed Sherlock, the shit, and thought he was going to die. The words that had come out of him at that moment were those he’d known for a long time, some of those he’d said at Sherlock’s grave, but ones that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to convey clearly, let alone to the man who was sitting in front of him now. And he still felt them completely to this very moment. 

_And if it’s not what he wants_...Sherlock thought as lovely vines crept softly into his heart with their tender tendrils. _If he only wants to stay the way things were, I’d give up everything. Just to have him close. Just not to lose him._

_What if it ruins everything?_ John asked himself. _The only pure thing I have ever known._

Time really does bring everything full circle, it seems. 

“You’ve forced me, in the past, to speak from the heart and from the top of my head. Something I don’t very much like doing.” John watched as Sherlock lifted his head to look at him. It was still hard to say it, still hard to speak those words, but John forced himself through every one. 

“Whenever I have though, I’ve been honest, Sherlock. Honest with you. When you make me furious and you leave me speechless. Breathless.” John cleared his throat. As Sherlock watched, he felt his mind palace creak, shift, and sigh. 

_Breathless. Did he say–– Did he mean–– Breathless._

John continued. “I suppose it’s my turn to speak because you already spoke that day on the tarmac. The problem is you said what you said expecting one outcome and getting another. I’d tell you you should have a chance to take it back, but after everything, you may not think you’re able. But if you want to take it back... Take it back.” Then he fell silent.

Sherlock studied John. Was there a hidden message there? Please for love of God, take it back! Don’t leave me with the thought that your feelings really are those which you professed to me! Or, perhaps, John was merely saying that Sherlock could take his confession back and they could live on in their home together, go back to the way things were. So close and comfortable, nearly on top of one another always in a comforting rhythm that left neither one alone. This new matter complicated that possibility. It risked everything. 

_Is that what you’re saying?_ Sherlock wanted to ask. _Take it back, please, so we can go on living like we did? So that we don’t complicate things or hurt the fragile bonds that still somehow exist between us?_ It would be safe. It would be easy. They could have one another again, not in the way the tabloids or their friends had always believed but that bond wouldn’t have to break. 

“I’ll take it all back if you’ll stay,” Sherlock said simply. His voice was hoarser and deeper than usual. It made him sound hollow and like he was teetering on the edge of something. Desperation, perhaps.  

John sighed. “But you do. Love me.” When he said it, his voice was light and matter-of-fact. Sherlock let the air go out of him and knew there was no point in trying to hide himself away from his truest friend. 

“Yes.” Sherlock stared into John, his eyes unwavering. “But I’ll never say it again as long as either of us shall live.” 

The corner of John’s mouth twitched. The words soured him, and not just because Sherlock was being needlessly dramatic. He screwed his mouth into imperfect shapes before taking a long, deep breath. 

“Sherlock, I don’t want that. I, ah... I want to... Try.” 

No response came to Sherlock’s mind at first. He probably would have managed something eventually if it wasn’t for what John said next. 

“I’ve always thought you were one of the most... beautiful people I’d ever seen. And on my stag night, I thought there might’ve been...” He sighed. “But it doesn’t matter now. We were drunk and now we’re sober, and I’m trying to tell you that I think I could... Would try it. Would want to try it.” 

“Try,” repeated Sherlock like a child. It was as if the gravity of it had not reached him. 

“Yeah.” 

“Try to. Love me.” 

John sighed and looked Sherlock over. “I do love you, Sherlock.” 

A chill zapped through Sherlock’s bones so deep he could hardly hide the shudder. 

John’s face softened. “You’re the most important person in my life and have been since the moment I met you. What I want is to try to be with you.” He tensed up again. “Like that.” The silence filled them until John’s panic built up inside him and he threw in, “If that’s what you want.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, almost overlapping him. “Yes. I. Yes.” 

“It’s just,” John said as his voice began to drift into discomfort again, “if it doesn’t work...” 

“If it doesn’t work, I’ll understand. You can merely tell me so, and I’ll never bring it up again.” 

John didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared back at Sherlock as his eyebrows came together. “I don’t mean it like that. When I said you’re the most important person in my life, I meant it. That’s what I’m afraid of losing.” 

“You won’t lose me, John. Not again. That promise I made, that vow... I meant.”

John nodded. “Every word?”

“You wanted her. She was your heart, and so I vowed to protect her as well.” 

“She wasn’t real.” He shook away Mary’s presence without even saying her name, his hand cutting through the air. “Even when everyone told me you weren’t real, even when YOU told me, I couldn’t believe it.” John’s voice got very tight. “I need you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock was overwhelmed, every part of him tuned and plucked, the vibrations going through him banging open all the shutters and locked doors inside his mind. Finally, he managed to speak.

“I am yours.”

The sigh that left John was an ultimate one, and Sherlock realized in that moment that John had waited as long to hear those words as Sherlock had wanted to say them. Sherlock, trying so hard not to let fear overtake him, leaned forward in his chair and was overwhelmed to see John do the same. 

They both thought to try and speak, but there had always been a way of silent communication between them. They leaned forward, meeting between their two chairs with their mouths an inch apart, holding themselves up with their arms taut on the armrests. Sherlock could nearly taste John, could smell his fabric softener and the coolness of his aftershave. John placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee like he had that night which now seemed so long ago and marveled at the length of leg beneath his palm. 

“God...” John shuddered. Sherlock gave a low murmur that seemed to become a purr. It was enough for John, who closed his eyes and fully realized how much he wanted that kiss. He wanted Sherlock, wanted him this way and in all ways. His body gave in to a dull, wonderful ache, and he wanted absolutely everything that Sherlock was. Wanted him like he’d never wanted anyone in his life. 

Sherlock’s body was shifting in ways it hadn’t before, in ways he’d fought when he hadn’t known how to react to them. It was stronger now than anything he’d ever felt, and it beat its wings inside him along with the overwhelmingness of the moment. He wanted to drag John into his arms and wrap himself around him, to learn it all at once. 

But first things are first. 

John felt the way Sherlock’s eyelashes grazed his cheek as Sherlock blinked languidly. It sent the ache inside John into a full, pure need. John moaned in the back of his throat and crushed his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock felt John’s mouth on his and, for a moment, forgot the mechanics of kissing. Soon, though, Sherlock was kissing him back with the same fervor and passion. They joined like metals soldered by the heat of their kiss, and suddenly, John softened things. He moved the hand from Sherlock’s knee to his neck and then caressed his hollow cheek. Sherlock moaned into the slower, softer kiss and let go of anything but his desire for John. When John pulled away, Sherlock’s eyes didn’t focus immediately. 

“All right?” John whispered. 

“All. Yes.” 

“Fried your circuits?”  


“Only a bit.” Sherlock cleared his throat. Then his eyes focused on John, the last shred of doubt, of fear, whittling at him. This time it wasn’t in John’s voice but his in his own. 

_He could change his mind. He could go. He could always get up and go._

“And... you...?” 

John smiled. “I haven’t been kissed like that in ages,” he said. “Not sure I can remember ever being kissed like that at all.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said with a surprised smile, the one he’d had when he thought that John might have a baby girl, the one that came when his world changed in an instant to being better than he ever could have imagined it. 

“Maybe we can try it again though. I know you’re a perfectionist.” 

Sherlock blushed, only he didn’t blush on his face the way people normally did. What occurred was that his ears would suddenly turn pink, ranging in tone from rose to fuchsia. John had never seen it happen before and a great, big smile broke out over his face. 

“You’re blushing.” 

“No.” 

“Yes, I think you are.” 

“No.” 

“Is this how you always react to embarrassment? Guess I’d never noticed.” He smiled. 

“At least I don’t get angry and bunch up my shoulders,” Sherlock said. “That’s your department. I shudder to think of what you must have done to the man from whom you bought today’s copy of _The Sun_.” 

“Ah, yeah,” John said. “Not really how you want it all to come out, even before there’s anything TO come out.”

“I suppose there is now.” 

“Yeah. Now.” 

“People’ll talk,” Sherlock said, taking one of John’s lines. 

John grinned. “They do little else.” They both laughed in a silent way, still in disbelief of all that had passed. Sherlock looked up again to catch John’s gaze, a light inside him which now made him more beautiful to John than anyone he’d ever seen in his life. 

John placed his hand back on Sherlock’s cheek and sighed. “Let’s give them something to talk about, then.” And, happily, Sherlock kissed him again. 


End file.
